


Void

by KelpietheThundergod



Series: testimōnium tuum est essentiālis (your testimony is essential) [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode: s11e11 Into the Mystic, Implied Relationships, M/M, Post Episode: s11e11 Into the Mystic, Season/Series 11
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-10
Updated: 2016-02-10
Packaged: 2018-05-19 14:45:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5970829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KelpietheThundergod/pseuds/KelpietheThundergod
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He doesn't sleep that night. Sits on the bed – for a long time. With his head in his hands. It's even darker that way – there's barely any light on in his room. It hurts less that way, or hurts more. The concussion is still pounding in his temples, a beat without sound but painful in the way it doesn't seem to end. Lying down is unbearable – like a weight is pressing down on him. Like there could be an attack at any moment. His thoughts won't stop racing. There's nothing but empty air. Nothing but the ghosts he brought in here with him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Void

 

 

 

_there scream all the hooks in your skin_

_there tear all the ghost hands_

 

_dragging your soul_

_over the gravel road_

 

 

 

 

He doesn't sleep that night.

(He doesn't dream)

Sits on the bed – for a long time. With his head in his hands. It's even darker that way – there's barely any light on in his room. It hurts less that way, or hurts more. The concussion is still pounding in his temples, a beat without sound but painful in the way it doesn't seem to end. Lying down is unbearable – like a weight is pressing down on him. Like there could be an attack at any moment. His thoughts won't stop racing. There's nothing but empty air. Nothing but the ghosts he brought in here with him.

He drags a hand down his face, wants to laugh bitterly at his own thoughts, but it gets stuck in his throat. The way his lungs drag the air in makes it sound like a sob. He grits his teeth, tries to find a fix point in the dimness of his room that's safe to look at, that he can concentrate on. Maybe he is losing his mind. He lets his right arm fall into his lap, closes his left hand around the forearm in an effort to ground himself in the here and now. He can't think like that – he knows what lies down that road. He is off his game – wounded, in a way that has nothing to do with his aching head and his busted knuckles. This is still a battle; he has no right to walk away from it. He forces in a deeper breath. He looks to the side, at his pillow. The cotton sheets that usually seem so inviting now look thin and cold. Lately, battle seems to be in every nook and cranny. He wanted to believe there was more to it, more to life. He does believe that, sometimes. And then he's alone again. With his doubts.

He turns his head away. Squeezes his arm once more, and then gets up. Puts his clothes and his boots back on – one flimsy barrier to calm his mind and make him feel protected. One, one more lie.

>

It's 2 AM. He's standing in the kitchen and scrubs the counter clean. It's not dirty – but he bets Sam made himself a sandwich before going to sleep the sleep of the just, and Sam is messy. There are probably crumbs, and smears. Dean just can't see them – don't mean they ain't there. But then he gets done with the counter, and the pounding of his head breaks through the state of almost-calm he had achieved with sweeping a rag back and forth over the smooth surface. Dean freezes for a moment, the rag held loosely in his limp hand. Anxiety shivers over his skin. The lights overhead hum.

He swallows heavily, then turns toward the sink. He just means to wash out the rag, but then he watches his hands clean the sink too. Very slowly – because he has to be thorough. Not because, this way, it will take longer.

He can breathe easier by the time he's reached the stove, cleaning it with sure, steady movements. The fear that kept his heart rate up and his hands twitchy for something to do has simmered down enough so he can almost ignore it. Almost pretend it isn't there. This time, he does wash out the rag and put it away. But then he's left with his hands – his empty hands. The lights are all on, but they seem cold to him. He wants something warm. Something to hold.

His eyes fall onto the shelf at the wall. Dean always tries to keep it well stocked – sometimes he doesn't manage. Sometimes he doesn't get a single minute for these things in days or weeks. Sam is shit at it, so mostly Dean makes the runs. Sam keeps insisting they have enough, that it's fine the way it is. Dean doesn't feel that way. Running low makes him nervous. Objectively, Sam might be right. They seldom even have the time to cook for two, much less get fresh food. But Dean wants to be – prepared.

For what, he isn't sure.

(Another lie)

There are a lot of cans on the shelf. Sometimes it makes him sad to see them. Because he thinks his mom would have been sad to see them. Dean has vague, blotchy memories of watching his mom cook. Thinks he can remember she loved cooking. Watching her nimble fingers curl around pot handles and spoons. Believing the food she made was the best in the entire world. Feeling happy. Feeling safe.

Dean turns away from the shelf, his throat tight. He turns his back to it – for now; he thinks it might need reorganizing – and goes to start the coffee machine. He stands there, listens to it roar and sputter. Fills a cup to the brink and then just – stands there, with it, in his hand. Dean doesn't feel like going back to his room. He shuffles over to the table, slowly, so he doesn't spill anything. He sits down. His back to the sink. Times like these, it makes him uneasy when he doesn't have the door in his sights. The exit.

Dean hovers his hands above the cup. The ceramic is too hot to touch, but the steam is nice. All the seats across from him are empty. It's not a big table. But still.

He briefly debates bringing his laptop over from his room – just flicking the lights on in his room for a sec, grabbing the thing and hauling ass back here. It sounds ridiculous even in his head – what is he fleeing from in his own room? But he knows. He knows. He could just watch movies until his eyes drift shut. Or until it's morning. But no. It doesn't feel right. Dean needs the silence right now, as heavy at it weighs. He brings the cup to his mouth.

>

There was a similar night like this, about – _god_ , what feels like a lifetime ago. The mark was still on his arm, but his soul was his own again.

(As much as it ever is)

Dean had sat in the very same spot, facing the door. Had drank a beer, though at some point the bottle was empty and he never got up to get another. It was shortly after he'd been cured; his hands shaky and foreign, his thoughts all jumbled and screaming and almost too much for him to focus on a single one. So he'd sat in the dark, for hours, and lost himself in thinking.

At some point, Cas had appeared in the doorway. Dean remembers looking up. Smiling. Trying to smile. Judging from the almost pained expression on Cas' face, he wasn't very successful.

Cas had come over anyway. Had sat with him.

Dean had asked, “Can't sleep?” It was supposed to be a joke. But Cas – _Cas_ – of course had taken him seriously. Or, faked it – maybe, in the hope to make Dean smile for real.

“I don't sleep,” Cas had said, gravelly and solemn. Calming. A life-line. “What about you?”

And Dean was going to lie – say he just wasn't tired. But there were smudges worthy of a ghoul under his eyes. It just seemed too much effort. He'd put the empty bottle aside, shrugged. Avoided Cas' eyes. Felt nervous, suddenly, alone with Cas there in the quiet. The lights weren't even on in the kitchen.

Dean had wanted to reach out. Feel the fabric of Cas' coat under his fingers. His warmth. Have Cas reach back – _allow_ Cas to reach back. Allow him to touch Dean. To – – _fuck,_ just hold Dean's hand. Touch Dean's face. His hair. His shoulders. But no – no. It hadn't been the right time. Or maybe it had simply been too late.

Dean had been a _thing_ , and a disgusting one at that. And now, back human, he should've felt warm again on his own. Whole again, on his own. Instead he'd felt spread thin and brittle. Exposed, without the buffer of a blackened soul turning the colors gray and his heart mute and motionless.

Dean had wanted to reach out. Instead, he'd stared at the surface of the table and fidgeted with his empty hands. Had laughed when Cas asked, out of nowhere, what it had felt like to be cured. Because he didn't know what else to do. Because he'd felt ashamed. And then found himself answering anyway, because maybe I would be easier in the dark – “Well, it hurt like a bitch”. But it wasn't. “And then everything just came – rushing back in. All the guilt and the – ” He couldn't continue. Couldn't speak for a long moment after that. Cas hadn't asked again.

At some point, Dean fell asleep at the table. He woke up alone.

>

Now, he regrets not having asked why Cas wanted to know this. He'd assumed Cas just wanted to check – something. That Dean was really human again, and understood pain and guilt and shame. Now, he isn't so sure.

Dean watches the empty space across from him, rubs at his hands. Something is wrong. Scratch that, _everything_ is wrong. His head pounds. He leans it on one hand, winces when his fingers brush against the bruises. It's like he can still feel the echo of the banshee's scream in his bones. Pain, he can deal with. But this hit too close to home. The icy terror of his control slipping away, while he pounded, mindless, useless, with his fists at the wall to make it stop.

He used to wake up that way. After being “cured.”

Aching, for the silence and the calm of the mark. For it to devour the guilt souring his guts, clear the pain out of his bone marrow, the sadness out of the backs of his eyes, and dissipate it in its void. In that place that made Dean just _not_. Because his dreams were empty then – empty, in the sense he couldn't remember them – but he'd wake with his head hollow and pounding, his throat raw, like there was endless screaming in those empty spaces.

He'd have cut his own arm off to have the thing gone.

Dean brings the cup to his mouth again, only to realize the coffee has grown cold. He sets it back down with a frustrated noise. Keeps the cup in his hands. Just to have something in his hands. The lights overhead hum, cold, steady. He sits at the table. He doesn't dream.

(He doesn't sleep)


End file.
